Wondering
by MickiTheMouse
Summary: Sometimes, Draco wondered. About what? Anything, everything, nothing. And, in the end, he always wondered if he ended up winning. Of course, there are many ways to define 'winning'. Here, it is freedom.


Sometimes, he wondered.  
He could - would - wonder about anything, everything. He hated it, but he did. It was stupid, pointless, and human. Human was a word he rather had a distaste for. Why? Because a human could feel; fully feel. He, restricted, was constricted to anger, hatred, and that bit of longing his father would allow. Anything more, was unacceptable, childish. (And really, when had he ever been allowed those privileges?)  
He wondered what it was like to be truly allowed to feel.

Walking down the corridor, pushing past a first year with a sneer, he wondered yet again. A girl was sobbing when he rounded the corner, tears falling, pent-up sadness wracking her figure. He did not stop. Pity wasn't allowed, but in the pit of his stomache he squirmed. Uncomfortable with crying-criers-and wondering. He hadn't cried. Not in years, or maybe never, because he couldn't remember. It was a weakness, when his father considered it. Which was true - and he only agreed because of the punishment if he didn't. He wanted to, sometimes, never would he admit it. But he did. Because all the pent up rage, and carefully shrouded sadness - depression, maybe? - was bubbling to the rim. And he just couldn't take it! (But really, when did he not have a weakness, because everybody had one.)  
He wondered what it felt like to cry.

Laying in his bed, staring rather blankly at the ceiling, his mind dragged him back to wondering. He found he hated it - though he was too numb to really know anymore. Numb. Controlled. He blinked, causing the shade of sleep - reoccurring nightmares in his mind, more like - to fade. He didn't control it anymore, anything. That damned cursed mark on his arm controlled him, and his father controlled him, and the Dark Lord. His choices were not his. His life, not his. And living? Living was breathing, feeling alive, loving, feeling. He was not alive. (And he missed it, really, being alive.)  
He wondered what it was like to live.

Absentmindedly poking at his food, listened to Pansy squawk on and on, and looking over Crabbe and Goyle's shoulders at the Gryffindors' table. Harry Potter, Ginny and Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. What was it like, having real friends? Of course, there was Crabbe and Goyle, they weren't all bad. Pansy - he wasn't sure what to say of her, unsure of his feelings. Not that she was complicated, but he was unused to feeling much and trying didn't feel all to great. But Potter was smiling, laughing, with the people he truly cared about. Did he truly care or anyone, anywhere? He couldn't say, maybe he did. His mother, of course. His friends, the two in front of him, he wasn't sure about. Back to Pansy, he couldn't say he really cared at all actually. She was more like a toy, to pass the time. Rid himself of-he sounded like his father. They looked happy. And he wanted that, God did he want that. Somehow, he thought he was incapable of that. (But really, he tried, and when had he ever?)  
He wondered how it was, how Harry felt.

A bird flying above him caught his attentions, though the minuscule thing probably shouldn't have. It was small, an odd shade of red and blue mixed with a light purple. Was that even possible, or had he finally cracked? But it was flying, singing, free. And he wanted that too. However selfish, he wanted it. Freedom, was something he lacked and would revel in if ever given the chance. A small, fleeting chance, but a chance. He couldn't stop it-the small, genuine smile that cracked through at the thought. He got a few surprised, odd glances from stupefied passerby. The smile was replaced immediately with a smirk, and he began leaving. Freedom, just the word, a thought, echoing through his head. Gray eyes flashed with unbidden perseverance. He would get that, he told himself. He had earned it by many rights, and he was going to get it whether they liked it or not. (But really, he wouldn't be able to get it without a fight, and damn, was he a fighter.)  
He wondered what it was like, being free.

His father, his mother, the Death Eaters. Loathing flashed through his eyes, a scowl set into his features. No, it didn't make sense. His sudden anger at his family. The hatred for the man he worshiped - they worshiped, he did not. How could he hate the Dark Lord while bearing his mark? His parents had told him he would want this, his father had looked somehow angry with him. He didn't care. Dead. He wanted to just kill someone. Death. He wanted the relief of death. A coward's way home. But he was no coward. Was he? No, he refused to be a coward. Love. He wanted that, actually. To be loved. To love. Not like Pansy - she was just a small, uncertain, temporary getaway. (And none of it even made sense when it was so jumbled together.)  
He wondered how anything made sense now.

He'd said he wanted to kill himself. He'd said it. Meant it. Resulting in horrific, fascinated stares. He had a morbid curiosity at himself, even. Not that it had helped, at all though. A coward would kill himself, to leave behind everything making life so hard. He'd tried, once. Had everything all planned out. How to do it. How to make sure nobody interfered. Stationed himself. Been so ready. Just to die. Leave it all behind. He was too much of a coward to kill himself. Ironic, being too cowardice to take the coward's way out. (And really, maybe it was a strength that kept him from doing it, anyways. )  
He wondered what death was like.

And would he never know, anything? What it was like to truly feel? To cry? To live? To be free? No, he'd decided once, he would not. Somehow, a lingering in the back of his mind… He wondered if he was right.

"Malfoy?"  
"Goyle."  
Sitting there with his friend - he'd never admit it aloud - he felt somewhat peaceful. Happy.  
"He's horrible, isn't he?" Quiet, as if someone might be listening. They could be. It wasn't impossible.  
"Yes." This conversation was obviously about Voldemort, the Dark Lord.  
"…Are we, Draco?"  
A pause, hesitation, sadness. "Yes. We always have been."  
A kind of whimper from Goyle, and gray eyes darted to an oddly colored bird outside the window. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He smiled. He felt.  
"But we can still change." Because they were, or at least Draco was. He felt free, and things made sense.

Because Draco Malfoy wondered.


End file.
